Well for starters, my husband had nothing to do with it; in fact, he went playing with his own balls, also known as golfing. Max got me out of bed before eight. Then the dog threw up. And before I knew it I was vacuuming, which is against the Supreme Law of Mother’s Day. The day was off to a sucky start indeed. But suckage turned to surprise when I went to the door to put the dog out. On my front deck were four roosters. Yes, roosters, like on the Kellogg’s Corn Flakes box, except not the illustrated kind. They scattered in a hurry when Splash came bolting out. And thank God; there is no way I’m getting pregnant right now.

My encounters with birds did not stop there. This morning, I had another run-in. Literally.

I was cruising along the winding road out of Pouch Cove when – clunk – I hit a bird. Was it a sparrow? Did God see it fall? Did it meet His tender view? Frig, I don’t know, but He sure didn’t save the little guy. (Yes, it was a boy.). It was a little teeny one from what I could gather in that millisecond when I saw him fly out of the trees on the left of the road, right into the side of my car. I held my breath and looked in my side mirror, hoping to see him flying away into the wild blue yonder all honky-dory. Please let him be okay, please let him be okay. But all I saw was the flutter of tiny wings on the pavement.

I contemplated pulling over, going back, giving him chest compressions with my pinky finger and mouth-to-beak resuscitation. But I was already late for work, and what was I going to do anyways? Put him in a box and take him to the office? Feed him little bits of shredded paper and staple his wing back together with the stapler I stole from the Halifax office that time? What if he were hanging onto life by a single feather? Would I have to put him out of his misery? There’s no way I could do it; I can’t even pick a scab off a fly-bite. As I kept on driving, I imagined the little guy getting squished by the very next car, or plucked up by a big scavenging seagull. I don’t know what became of him. But one thing is clear: I am a horrible person.

So my day is off to a killer start. In an effort to forgive myself, I decide to be prepared for the next time it happens. So when I arrived at work I immediately googled “what to do with a broken bird”. Wrong choice of keywords, let me tell you. So I tried “helping an injured bird” and found a whole nest of information on the subject:

Thanks Internet; now I know what to do. (By the way, this eHow site also tells you how to help a bird with a broken wing, how to care for baby birds, how to capture an injured pelican, how to pluck a turkey, how to make a down comforter, how to make a feather pen, and more. I kid you not.)

But why is this shattered bird weighing so heavily on me? I guess it’s the doggy mama in me. Ever since Splash came into my world four years ago, I have compassion for all creatures, great and small. I mean seriously, what is the difference? Who says my Portuguese Water Dog is worth more than a little sparrow? Well, the price tag. But otherwise, what’s the diff? If Splash was hurt and lying in the middle of the road, I’d call 911 and try my damnedest to convince the paramedics that she is a really hairy human with four legs. Hey, the pollution is causing all kinds of mutations these days!

I’d do that for a dog. Any dog, in fact. But not a bird, apparently.

The baby mama in me is that angel on my shoulder, telling me what to do (although clearly I don’t always listen.) I would want Max to help an animal if he saw one in distress. (Unless it was a sabre-tooth tiger, in which case shag calling the vet; call the Museum of Science because someone’s about to get famous!) All jokes aside, I can’t imagine an attribute I value more than kindness. Screw the wit, the athleticism, the courage, the smarts. If Max is kind to others, generous and compassionate, I will be oh so proud of him. As long he’s also good-looking.

Also contributing to my sunken feeling is the fact that dad loved birds. So when I hit that bird this morning, I felt like I hit dad. And he’s already dead for God sakes. Double dead. Not cool. The self-loathing continues.

That’s it. I am going to put a shoebox in the car with a teeny tiny blanket in it, and some sticks and leaves, and maybe a worm. And some mud for the worm, so he doesn’t die. But what if I have to feed the worm to a sick birdie? Damn this food chain; I just can’t win.

Please note: In spite of her animal affections, Mother Blogger supports the seal hunt. Mostly by not thinking about the cute little furry ones.